Going for Broke
by Checkerboards
Summary: Ah, Arkham Asylum, the place that Gotham loves to hate. But Arkham's out of money! What schemes will unfold to keep Gotham's least loved landmark in business?
1. Blooming Problems

Arkham's lunchroom was never a particularly quiet place. There was always someone yelling, singing, chanting, swearing, laughing, or grunting. Plastic silverware clicked against plastic trays and scarred wooden tables. Every so often, a metallic clatter cascaded out of the kitchen, sometimes accompanied by the cringe-inducing sound of a full tray of sub-par food glorping onto the floor. The constant flow of noises hammered at the inmates until they no longer really noticed the constant susurrus of insanity that puddled around them.

But today - ah, today was different. Even the rogues at their carefully guarded table felt the change in the air. It was the twenty-seventh day of the month, and that could mean only one thing.

Ice cream.

Edward Nygma felt a little shiver of anticipation dance between his shoulderblades. On one hand, it was humiliating to be this excited about a snack treat. He had nearly conquered Gotham and the Batman in times too numerous to count! He had stolen some of the world's finest artifacts! He was the most brilliant man ever to live! How could one tiny cup of semi-frozen extruded dairy product have such a pull over him?

On the other hand, it had been a rough month inside his dank cell. His complaints about the stuttering lights in the halls and the steady _drip-drip-drip_s of numerous pipes that had managed to leak through their padded bandages of duct tape had been thoroughly ignored. Between the uncertain lighting, the humid atmosphere, and the rising tide of angry squalling coming from the inmates down the way, it had not been a particularly restful handful of weeks. And since nothing else in this hole seemed to be aimed at making them happy - well, why not enjoy a brief taste of sugary sweet happiness?

The lunchroom attendants, carefully clutching their trays, drifted from table to table to dispense their goods. Eddie's mouth watered as the little paper cup bounced down in front of him. Eagerly, he ripped the top off and stuck his spoon in. A heaping bite of fluffy whiteness was raised to his lips.

"_Pthoo_!"

The disgusting excuse for dessert landed squarely on the table. He scrutinized the label. "Frozen _yogurt_?" he demanded shrilly.

"This is three weeks past its expiration date," the Scarecrow scowled, squinting at the tiny numbers on his cup.

"Mine's _vanilla_!" shrieked Harley Quinn, who looked forward to her monthly amount of chocolate like kids looked forward to Disneyland.

"Where are the _sprinkles_?" the Joker scowled, poking a long white finger distastefully into his portion and stirring it in a vain hope for a rainbow of colored delights.

"Babies," sniffed Poison Ivy, taking a delicate spoonful.

"Well, if _you_ like it so much, Pammy..." the Joker drawled. With a flick of his plastic spoon, a glob of frozen yogurt spiraled through the air and smacked her on the forehead. It glopped directly into her unbuttoned jumpsuit and nestled in her cleavage.

With a look of stormy fury on her yogurt-smeared face, the green-skinned rogue threw her entire cup of yogurt at the clown. The Joker, expecting it, leaned backward just far enough for the little paper cup to soar past him and impact directly on the Scarecrow's forehead.

Crane's growl of rage was almost immediately dwarfed by the cheers rising from every table. As one, the inmates rose to their feet, hurling the terrible treats at each other with all the joy of people whose entertainment options had previously been limited to jigsaw puzzles and daytime TV.

A lunchroom attendant, shrieking with fear, yanked her tray up to protect her face. The remaining cups of frozen yogurt sailed through the air like individually packaged snowballs, raining down on the rogues' table and exploding as they hit.

Sticky, wet, and miserable, the Riddler sought refuge beneath the table. Crane had already folded himself into the tiny space. With a scowl on his face, he polished his glasses uselessly on a fairly clean bit of his jumpsuit. Eddie scrunched in, leaning against a well-placed table leg. Across from them, the Mad Hatter scraped happily at the bottom of one yogurt cup with his spoon. Three more were lined up, waiting for his further attention.

"I can't see how you eat that stuff," Eddie grumbled, wiping a smear of thin, watery yogurt from his eyebrow.

The Mad Hatter brightened. "_You might just as well say that "I see what I eat" is the same thing as "I eat what I see"!_" he chirped happily, waving his spoon like a conductor's baton.

"Now you've set _him_ off," groaned Crane, perching his glasses back onto his nose.

"_'You might just as well say,' added the March Hare, 'that "I like what I get" is the same thing as "I get what I like"!_"

Eddie buried his face in yogurt-covered hands. Above him, the lunchroom rocked in a riot of slippery yogurt and overly energetic lunatics.

"_You might just as well say _-"

"SHUT UP!" shrieked the two trapped rogues.

The Hatter sniffed, pointedly ignoring the two crass philistines sharing his hidey-hole, and continued enjoying his snack.

* * *

><p><em>One week earlier<em>

Arkham Asylum was no one's favorite place to be. There were no brochures proclaiming their miracle cures, because miracle cures didn't happen here. There were no scenic postcards of the admittedly beautiful landscape. No one dreamed of growing up and settling down within its towering brick walls.

Dr. Carlson, who had been the unofficial head of the asylum for longer than he cared to think about, slouched back into his desk chair and idly watched his tiny television. This thirty minute long lunch break was the closest thing that he had to a vacation, and he was determined to enjoy every minute of it.

The actors on the screen - a pair of men dressed as lady office workers with matching names - chattered in falsetto to one another as Carlson carefully propped his feet on the corner of his desk. The crinkled wrapper of his gourmet roast beef sandwich, spread neatly across his stomach, waited to catch crumbs from the freshly-baked bread. Carlson opened his mouth and took one delicious bite. The muscles in his shoulders, more knotted than a kitten's ball of yarn, slowly relaxed as he enjoyed this one shining moment of free time.

The men in dresses abruptly disappeared from his screen to be replaced by a serious-looking man with a serious-looking mustache. "We interrupt this program to bring you some breaking news," he said, looking grimly into the camera.

Carlson's shoulders hunched up as if he'd been smacked on the spine with a sledgehammer. Breaking news in Gotham usually meant one thing: one or another of his charges had done something unspeakable that he was indirectly responsible for. The sandwich, forgotten, bounced to the floor as he wrenched himself upright.

The screen was filled with an image of a giant scaly foot crushing a building as if it were a cigarette butt. "Keystone City is under attack. The being in question has not been identified, though scientists claim that it must be extraterrestrial and possibly extradimensional as well. The Justice League is on the scene. We'll keep you updated as the attack progresses." The screen, which now showed the tiny specks of the world's greatest heroes zipping through the sky, went to black.

The comedy show returned. Carlson scowled and snapped it off. Then, with regret on his face, he scooped the soiled sandwich from the floor and dumped it in the trash can.

At least he still had the potato chips.

He plucked a chip from the bag and studied it, trying to will his stress away. He was going to eat his chips, drink his coffee, and forget that there was ever such a place as Arkham Asylum. Yes. That's what he'd do.

The door slammed open. "Dr. Carlson!" An accountant, a stack of folders clutched to his chest, skidded into the room and stopped dead at the apparent sight of his superior having a staring contest with a potato chip.

Carlson sighed and stuffed the chip back into the bag. "Yes, Mr...Babcock?" he asked, looking briefly at the man's name badge.

"Am I...interrupting something?" Babcock asked, looking cautiously at the bag of chips.

"Just my lunch," Carlson dismissed wearily. He balled up the bag of chips and dumped it into the trash can. So much for having time to eat. "You had something to ask me?" he hinted as the accountant stared nervously at the discarded chip bag.

"Oh. Oh! Yes." Babcock seated himself in front of the desk and fanned the folders out, yanking papers from each one and turning Carlson's desk into something that resembled the floor of a college student's bedroom. "I was going through the budget, and..." He shoved his glasses up onto his nose. "The Bloom money is gone."

Carlson stared blankly at him. "The Bloom money," he repeated flatly.

"You know, the trust fund the Blooms left us because of their son? The hamster guy? They left us a bunch of money because he got better. But now...well, it's gone. It was scheduled to run out this year, and our department asked Dr. Arkham if he was going to replace it with something, and he said he was going to..."

A very familiar throbbing pain unwound itself in Carlson's temples.

"...but then he...well, and then Ms. Sinner said that _she'd_ take care of it, but..."

Carlson gritted his teeth so hard that he could feel the enamel grinding off of them. He had no doubt that the accountant had conscientiously informed his predecessors that the asylum was running on a knife-edge of a budget. He had an equal lack of doubt that either of them had cared enough to do anything about it. After all, Jeremiah Arkham had probably been too busy setting things up for his debut as the next Black Mask, and as for Alyce Sinner...well, he'd love to sit down one day with the bureaucrats whose top choice for the asylum's head administrator had been a woman named Sinner with the seven deadly sins written on ribbons in her hair. He'd be willing to bet that her appointment had more to do with money than morality.

"...and we're not going to be able to cover payroll next month if we don't do something now," the accountant finished.

Carlson rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And you didn't tell me this earlier because..."

The accountant bristled. "I did tell you! I sent you a memo every week reminding you that the Bloom money was almost gone!"

Carlson flicked through his IN box on his desk, a towering pile which hadn't been meaningfully reduced since the day he'd stepped into this office. "There's no memo from you here," he accused.

"I emailed it to you!"

Carlson tapped a few keys on his computer. "Well?" he asked, spinning the monitor so that the accountant could see his inbox. It was packed full of things labeled URGENT and ATTENTION, but it was remarkably empty of anything from the accounting office.

"Not to that account. I sent it to the admin address," the accountant said helpfully.

"There's an administrator's address?"

"Of course! Ms. Sinner didn't tell you?"

Carlson spun the monitor back into place. "Ms. Sinner failed to inform me of many things," he said grimly. In fact, by the time that he'd found himself occupying the top office, Ms. Sinner had been gone for weeks. Had he known that he was going to have to teach himself the job - and if he'd known what exactly this job entailed - he would have laughed in the face of the board of directors when they'd approached him with the job offer.

"Dr. Carlson?"

Carlson blinked, removing himself from a quite satisfying fantasy of strangling the chairman of the board of directors. "Mmm? Yes. Exactly how bad is it?" he asked, eyeing the piles of paper.

The accountant burrowed in the heap and extracted a printout stuffed with numbers. Tentatively, he pointed at a circled number.

"And that's how far below maintenance we are for the year?" Carlson said dismally.

The accountant coughed. "Uh. This month," he corrected.

"This _month_?"

"Ah...yes," Babcock said.

Carlson raked a hand through his thinning black hair. "Any ideas on how we can fix it?"

"Win the lottery?" Babcock suggested hopelessly.

Carlson glared at him for a moment, then sighed. "All right. Go back to your office. Try to think of something, all right?"

"Yes sir." Babcock packed up his papers, stuffing them into his folders with the energy of one trying to get away before the other shoe dropped. As he reached for the final stack, the back of his hand collided gently with Carlson's paper cup of coffee. It tipped slowly, gracefully, and arced quietly through the air to splat onto the floor. Coffee spread in a widening, steamy pool on the ancient linoleum.

"Sorry," the accountant muttered, bundling his papers together. He scuttled out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Carlson dropped his head directly onto the desktop, forehead pressing on the corner of a legal pad. He had known that their funding had been cut - every mayor and government nitwit elected in this city ran on a platform of cutting Arkham's funding - but to have it come to this? Was Arkham Asylum doomed to be disbanded?

"No," he snarled, shooting up in his seat. He'd be damned if he let this place sink without a fight. So the government wouldn't fund them? Fine. There were other people with money in this city. Surely one of them would chip in!

He lifted his phone. "Charlotte?"

"Yes, Dr. Carlson?" his secretary mumbled through a mouthful of her lunch.

"We've got work to do." His stomach growled as the scent of his deceased coffee wafted across his face. "And bring a mop," he added.

(_to be continued_)

_Author's Note: Everything Jervis says in italics is a quote from a Wonderland book. Alyce Sinner and Jeremiah Arkham's forays into roguedom are canon, or at least they were before the reboot. I don't think I could out-weird DC if I tried. _


	2. In the Black

Spring on the grounds of Arkham Asylum was beautiful. The trees that lined the drive, the ones that were so ominous and spooky in the winter, took the opportunity to burst with blossoms that dripped their petals on the road below them. Flowerbeds filled themselves with riots of color, splashing vibrant hues across the gently rolling emerald hills.

The asylum itself was not particularly pretty, but tonight, an effort had been made to turn it into something other than a timeworn lair for insanity. Little twinkly lights had been hung from the walls, disguising the battered stone facade under a layer of sparkles. The gravel at the end of the drive had been neatly raked, with all hint of intruding vegetation pruned sharply back into an exact curve that ended precisely at the line that the gravel started. Since Batman and his associates were off fighting the monster that ate Keystone City, the Batmobile's traditional parking space had been covered over with a rented fountain that glistened in the moonlight.

The lobby doors had been thrown open to reveal a scrubbed-down, tidied-up room that could have comfortably held every socialite in the city. A buffet table, filled with food prepared by the asylum's cooks, stretched along one wall. A four-piece band made up of Arkham's most inoffensive inmates played quietly in one corner.

Dr. Carlson and his staff, clad in rented tuxedos and borrowed ballgowns, mingled uneasily with one another. Every rich person in the city had been invited to this event. Politicians, businessmen, trust-fund debutantes and self-made millionaires - not a wealthy person in the city had been left off of the guest list.

And, unfortunately, not a wealthy person in the city had shown up. Some had, at the very least, bothered to RSVP - in the negative, naturally - but most of them had just ignored their invitation. Even Bruce Wayne, who normally attended Arkham's events with whatever four or five women he was currently associating with, hadn't appeared.

On the dance floor, Dr. Carlson's secretary Charlotte had found herself obliged to dance for a while with Dr. Lucas. She didn't know his first name, nor did she care to. The man was far too fond of talking down to his inferiors - and to Lucas, very few people indeed had earned the status of 'equal', let alone 'superior'.

"Why on earth did Carlson have the banquet _here_?" he sneered, guiding Charlotte expertly around a knot of doctors trying to teach one another how to foxtrot through their masks of determined cheerfulness.

"It's not as if he had much choice," Charlotte answered, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. "You wouldn't believe what the going rates are to rent decent event spaces."

"But _here_?" Lucas looked scornfully at the scarred linoleum. "He really expected Veronica Vreeland and the rest of her crowd to show up to a party _inside Arkham_?"

The song ended. With relief, Charlotte dropped her arms and backed away. "If you'll excuse me," she said, turning on her heel and stalking away before Lucas could respond.

At ten o'clock, two full hours after the fundraiser should have started, Carlson waved the band to a halt. "Good work," he said, forcing a smile to his face.

"Thanks, doc," the cello player said, resting his instrument back in its case.

"Sorry no bigwigs showed," the french horn player offered as he spun his instrument in circles. A patter of liquid dripped from the mouthpiece onto the freshly buffed floor.

"Thank you," Carlson muttered. "Go on." An orderly, hovering discreetly down the hallway, took charge of the foursome and led them to their cells.

Carlson turned to face the small horde of doctors on the dance floor. They immediately stopped their conversations and stared at him, worry and fear for their future in their eyes.

"What now?" Dr. Lucas asked, summing up what was on everyone's mind.

Carlson sighed. "I do have a plan," he said. A sigh of relief rippled through the room. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow to discuss it," he added.

* * *

><p><em>Three days later<em>

The rogues gallery did not often get their allotted yard time. The asylum had lived through several memorable yard times, featuring everything from moss monsters to explosive escapes, and no one cared to repeat the experience. This was possibly why, on this occasion, the basketball-court-sized rectangle of heavily reinforced concrete was outlined with an evenly spaced row of uniformed figures staring watchfully forward.

Gotham's gallery of costumed criminals gathered loosely in the center of the yard, maintaining a pointed distance from their wall of guards. The Riddler stood at the edge of the group, enjoying the feel of the warm spring sun on his shoulders. Nearby, the Joker was having an animated discussion with Harley Quinn, arms waving in the wind and nearly clipping the Mad Hatter as he chattered at Two-Face. Across the yard, Poison Ivy basked in the sunlight. From her languid sprawl on the concrete, she stroked the half-dead weedy plants poking up from the cracks in the cement with the kind of gentleness that she never showed to anyone made of meat. Groups of lesser-known rogues stuck awkwardly with one another, keeping a careful eye on their criminal superiors as they chatted.

The sunlight was entertaining for approximately two minutes. Then, bored, the Riddler seated himself next to the Scarecrow. "What do you think's going on?"

"Nothing good," Crane said dismally. He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position on the ancient wooden bench.

"They let us outside," Eddie pointed out. "Maybe they're finally loosening up a little."

"Doubtful," Crane said. "Nothing about this implies that they're going to start treating us more casually." He tapped himself on the chest, where a hastily painted set of stenciled letters spelled out SCARECROW.

"I wonder why they bothered," Eddie said, examining his own sloppily labeled shirt.

"You should be wondering why they wrote RIDDLER instead of EDWARD." Crane tugged his sleeves down over his exposed wrists. "Something's not right. They're planning something."

"Oh, come on," Eddie said, leaning back on his hands and looking up at the beautiful lightly clouded sky. "What could possibly happen?"

The doors to the yard slammed open. A man stepped out into the sunshine. Blond buzzed hair, neatly hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, topped a face that looked as if it had been carved out of granite and left on a glacier for a few years until it had acquired a sharp-edged weatherbeaten appearance. His black shirt and pants, neatly pressed, bore an array of patches and badges.

He surveyed the rogues. "_Atten-hut_!" he called briskly.

The rogues regarded him curiously for a moment. Then, with a shrug, they returned to their conversations.

Almost instantly, the man in black began bellowing with righteous fury. "_When I say attention I mean attention! Now get in line_!"

As one, the circle of uniformed officers strode forward from the walls. Each rogue found themselves being hauled by both arms into an exactly placed double line. Protests and yelps of irritation were steadfastly ignored by the pairs of officers as they clung doggedly to their charges' arms.

"See?" Crane pointed out as the Riddler was dragged into place next to him.

"_You'll speak when I tell you to speak you scrawny excuse for a toothpick_!" The man in black was suddenly there in front of them, staring Crane down with a thunderous glare. "_Now shut your mouth and keep it shut do you understand me_?"

The Master of Fear twitched slightly backward from the hat brim threatening to poke him in the eyes. "If I'm to keep my mouth shut, how am I to respond?" he asked scornfully.

The trio of officers around him erupted in a chorus of orders, swooping in until the Scarecrow was completely obscured by bobbing black hats. "_You say yes sir when you are addressed_!" "_You say yes sir -_" "_say yes sir-_ "_addressed, you say yes -_"

For a moment, it appeared as if the Scarecrow would wait them out. Then, realizing that they could probably shout at him all day, he gave in. "Yes..._sir_," he sneered.

Temporarily satisfied, the man in black stalked away. His compatriots remained where they were, hands locked around Crane's upper arms.

"_You've had it easy up till now_!" the man bellowed, sauntering back and forth along the line. "_You've had group therapy and talk therapy and drug therapy and it hasn't done shit! So now we're gonna do things MY way_!"

"You tell 'em, Blackie!" the Joker said cheerfully.

If the man in black was fazed by the Joker's seeming cooperation, he didn't show it. "_Maybe you didn't hear me talking to Skinny over there_!" Crane's eyes narrowed with annoyance. "_You speak when you're spoken to do I make myself clear?_"

The Joker sprang into a snappy, grinning salute, or at least as much of one as he could manage with both upper arms pinned to his sides. "Yes _sir_," he smarmed enthusiastically.

"And if we don't do things your way?" Poison Ivy purred. One of the sickly looking plants began to writhe and pulse out of the concrete. The scrawny plant, now the size of a man, reached twig-thin vines toward the nearest black-suited officer.

Sniper rifles cracked in unison. The plant, with four darts protruding from it, instantly withered and died. Ivy shrieked something nearly unintelligible about herbicides and lunged toward her stricken baby. Her two handlers dragged her back into position, ignoring her efforts to kick them in the shins.

"_Any more questions_?" the man bellowed. "_Good_!_ Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the new Arkham Asylum. Now drop and give me twenty!_"

* * *

><p>The yard was a disaster by the end of the first hour of "therapy".<p>

There had been an attempt at resistance by the rogues, which was rather like saying that rocket fuel was a little explosive. When their handlers had forced them to the ground for that first round of pushups, the indignant inmates had done their best to fight their way to freedom. Those without powers had kicked, scratched, bitten and clawed wildly at their captors. Those with powers - a lonely group comprised of Poison Ivy and a handful of relative unknowns - lashed out with everything they could muster, whether that meant living tangles of weeds or living nanite-ink tattoos.

The rebellion had ended abruptly with the _rat-a-tat_ of snipers from the towers. Weed creatures stiffened and died from herbicide-loaded darts, while darts filled with enough tranquilizers to down a T-rex took out the rebellious power-users. Officers and orderlies tackled the rest, dragging them off individually for whatever punishment they deemed necessary.

The Scarecrow, with a glowering look of sullen resentment stamped onto his face, hunched in a cross-legged position next to the concrete walls. His slightly undersized straitjacket prevented him from moving so that his elbows wouldn't jab uncomfortably into his thighs. A pair of cheerful pink bunny ears rested atop his head despite his many attempts to shake them off.

Beside him, past a small knot of watchful orderlies, the Riddler struggled manfully with the immense task of doing push-ups. "Three," counted the sergeant.

"I've done at least ten!" Nygma protested, twisting to glare at the sergeant.

A large, combat-booted foot dropped onto his back, forcing him to bellyflop onto the concrete. "Did I hear you say you wanted to start over?" the man inquired heartily.

"_No_!"

"Let's go. _One_," the man called, pressing down on Nygma with his foot. Sweaty, red-faced, and burning with hate, the Riddler shoved himself upward.

In the yard itself, a small clot of rogues ran in a pointless circle around the browning remains of the gigantic weed. Drill sergeants swarmed around them like a pack of dogs, barking orders and corrections over one another until the air rang with solid bellowed noise. Ivy and her power-using cohorts were sprawled limply in the corner, with officers standing by to drag them to their feet the very instant that they awoke. Two-Face curled himself silently through a round of endless situps, eyes locked on his coin, which was being held threateningly over a storm drain.

In a window far above the chaos, a cluster of worried-looking faces was barely visible. The group of Arkham's psychiatrists, gently shoving to get a better view, looked anxiously down at the yard where the mob of sweaty, furious rogues were being put through their paces.

"You're sure this is a good idea?" Dr. Davis asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.

"Do you have a better one?" Carlson asked, watching Harley Quinn resentfully running laps in a straitjacket.

"Well, no, but..."

"You're going to get us killed," Dr. Lucas said abruptly. "Those _people_ down there aren't doing anything but making the rogues angry, and they're going to blame us for it."

"Let them," Carlson said absently.

"_What_?" chorused the group of psychiatrists.

Carlson shook his head wearily and tried to focus, wishing that he'd managed to sleep in a bed last night instead of catnapping between phone calls at his desk. "They have other things to worry about," he said.

"Like that brutality happening out there?" Dr. Lily snapped. "You can't just subject the mentally ill to that kind of treatment!"

"It's illegal!"

"It's immoral!"

"It's _working_," Carlson pointed out. "Look. _Look_, do you see?" The doctors squinted down at the yard.

"They're doing what they're told. They _never_ do what they're told," Dr. Coleman said, awed.

"So what?" Dr. Lucas demanded. "In case you don't remember, this asylum is nearly bankrupt! How on earth can we afford all of this?"

Dr. Carlson almost imperceptibly braced himself. "I'm afraid that I wasn't completely honest at the staff meeting," he said slowly. "If you'll come with me?"

He led the doctors down the hallway to the auxiliary observation room. Motioning for silence, he swung the door open.

The enormous window had been almost entirely boarded over. A bank of monitors glared at them from floor to ceiling. Each one showed some portion of activity from the yard below, whether it was a wide-angle shot of one half of the immense space or a bouncing, sickening closeup on the Joker's smirking face. Surrounding the monitors were a trio of men in matching t-shirts, barking orders into headset microphones and taking notes on gridded sheets of paper.

A nasty suspicion crystallized in the doctors' minds. "You're making a _television show_?" Dr. Lucas blurted, as if making a TV show ranked only second to murder on his personal list of unforgivable crimes.

"QUIET!" roared the three men stationed at the monitors.

Carlson hurriedly shut the door.

"A _television show_?" Dr. Lucas repeated, aghast.

"Yes," snapped Carlson. "The network has very graciously offered to pay our bills while they assist us in some experimental therapy."

The psychiatrists shouted with righteous anger. "You sold our patients!" "We won't stand for this!"

Carlson turned a bright, brittle smile on his underlings. "What's that I hear? You're asking for a cut in your salary? Maybe you'd like to donate some of your savings toward running this place?"

All protests immediately disappeared - except, that is, for one lone mumble. "It's still illegal," someone muttered in the back of the crowd.

"As a matter of fact - no, it isn't." Carlson, who had combed through the relevant laws and codes for hours, ticked off points on his fingers. "One - we are, legally, the rogues' guardians, which means that we can do whatever we like with our footage of them. Two - we are allowed, and in fact _encouraged_, to research new and effective methods of treatment. Three - we are also encouraged to educate the public about our methods. Four - "

"You can't seriously believe that that will stand up in court!" Dr. Portillo folded her arms defiantly. "It's preposterous!"

Still smiling that tense little smile, Carlson tucked his hands into his pockets. The skin underneath one eye began twitching. "Four," he repeated pleasantly, "it is our last hope. Unless you have any other suggestions, Dr. Portillo?"

Dr. Portillo stuffed her hands into her pockets and scowled at the floor. "Not at the moment," she said begrudgingly.

"Good. Now -"

The door swung open. "Do you _mind_?" one of the monitor watchers snapped, glaring at the crowd of doctors clustered around the door. "We're trying to work!"

"I believe we're finished," Carlson said, ignoring the murmur of dissent rumbling through the staff. The group broke up, drifting to their offices and their duties. The monitor man nodded curtly to Carlson and slammed the door.

Carlson looked both ways, making sure he was alone in the corridor, and let out a long, barely controlled sigh of exhaustion. In fact, he agreed with Dr. Portillo. His plan would never hold up in court. But that didn't matter. It wasn't about the television show's money, or the additional upgrades that the network had planned for the asylum, or even the rehabilitation of the rogues (though if that happened, he certainly wasn't going to feel bad about it.) It was simply about bringing their plight to the world's attention. No one cared if the doctors had to work triple shifts or if the orderlies were only able to do half of what they were supposed to do. But give the world a case of abuse to examine and suddenly Arkham would be under the microscope, funding problems and all. And true, the citizens of Gotham probably wouldn't care, but the rest of the country was full of people just itching to defend the Joker's rights for some bizarre reason. Maybe they'd kick in a few bucks so that he and his associates wouldn't have to do the horrific, cruel and unusual torture that was running laps. Maybe the ACLU or NAMI would bail them out. Maybe he'd be fired, stripped of his license, and left to live in a cardboard box for the rest of his days. If that was the cost of keeping Arkham open, he'd pay it.

He rubbed his tired, aching eyes with both hands. Then, with plodding steps, he made his way to the rogues' wing to supervise the installation of their brand-new hidden cameras.

(_to be continued_)


	3. As Seen on TV

Arkham's rec rooms were normally the quietest places in the entire asylum. The one on the fourth floor, the one reserved for the rogues, tended to be even quieter, since criminal masterminds do not appreciate annoyances that might distract them from plotting their next big coup.

At the moment, the rogues' rec room was certainly not quiet. Every rogue in the place, from the Joker all the way down to Captain Stingaree, was sprawled limply on whatever furniture they could find. When the furniture ran out, they spread out on the floor, soaking up the chill from the linoleum on their sweaty, battered bodies. Groans and gasps of pained hurt rippled through the room as the inmates did their best to find a position that eased their complaining muscles.

The rogues were not happy about the situation. They were not happy in an arm-dislocating, asylum-torching, world-ending kind of way that would have caused Gotham a lot of trouble if they weren't flat to the ground with exhaustion. They didn't know why they hadn't been allowed back to their cells, and they didn't care. All they cared about was the sweet, sweet absence of people in black shirts shouting at them.

One group of barely-qualified rogues on their first trip to Arkham commiserated with one another in the corner. "Is this what it's like all the time here?" moaned one, propping her throbbing feet up on a nearby table.

"Don't be stupid," muttered her compatriot, wincing as he tried to massage his aching calf muscles. "You think the big guns over there wouldn't'a bought themselves out of it if they knew about it?"

"Yeah? Well, they didn't bring Freeze out," the first muttered rebelliously.

"Freeze'll die if they put him in the sun."

"Lucky bastard."

Things were not much cheerier on the far side of the room, with one notable exception. Harley Quinn, who had endured worse workouts daily as part of her gymnastic career, perched perkily on the arm of a sofa and examined her nails. The Joker, slouched comfortably on the cushions next to her, looked the room over with lazy eyes.

"We gotta stop this," Mr. Scarface announced from his armchair. Arnold Wesker, sitting limply on the floor below him, nodded tired agreement with his wooden boss. He'd had it a bit worse than most, since no one else had to carry ten pounds of splintery tyrant in a Snugli as they ran.

"And how do you suggest we do that?" the Scarecrow asked acidly, rubbing a sore spot on his neck where the bunny-ear elastic had chafed him.

"You're askin' me?" the puppet said bitterly. "You should ask Chuckles over there. '_Yes, sir, no, sir',_" he sneered, doing a half-credible imitation of the Joker. "I thought you'd at least have the balls to try an' kick someone's ass out there!"

The room went quiet. Some might say that the room was dead quiet, and they'd be right, because 'dead' was what happened to people who spoke to the Joker like that. As one, the inmates slowly revolved to stare at the jade-haired jester in question.

The Joker regally drew himself upward. Arnold, white-faced with terror, dragged himself behind the armchair and peeked around the back. Slowly, deliberately, the Joker paced across the room, through the aisle of inmates hastily scrambling aside, and came to a halt in front of the tattered old armchair.

"Please, Mr. Joker, sir, Mr. Scarface was just -" Arnold stammered into the silence.

Lightning-fast, the Joker swept the puppet up into his arms. Then, with a careless tweak to its nose, he dropped it headfirst back into the seat. "Shut up," he instructed. The room relaxed slightly. "As it so happens, I did consider introducing a few of our new friends to some of my classic repertoire. But then I thought, Joker old boy, your adoring public deserves a bit more. They need style! Wit! And where's the joke in one or two fists to the face? Where's the panache? Where's the punchline?"

Eyebrows began to raise. His adoring public? He sure as hell better not be referring to his fellow rogues in those terms. A stormy look began to cloud a few faces.

Harley coughed politely. "Um, Puddin'?" she said hesitantly. "Your...public?"

He smiled down at her calmly, like a preacher addressing his flock. "But of course, pumpkin pie," he crooned. "You didn't see them?"

"...No?" she said, gingerly, as if he might backhand her through the wall for the wrong answer.

He clambered up onto a nearby table, theatrically exaggerating his worn and exhausted state with a few well-placed groans, and reached for one of the many art-therapy-produced decorations adorning the wall. This one was a papier-mache mask covered with sequins of all sizes. He popped it off of the wall, peered at the crowd through a hole carved into its middle, and tossed it aside. In the area that had been hidden below the mask, a hole had been hacked into the ancient bricks, just large enough to hold a camera. A wire dangled uselessly from the disconnected device.

"It's just a security camera," Poison Ivy snarled, flopping back into her cushions.

"Au contraire," the Joker smiled. He yanked it out of the wall, taking some of the rotting brickwork with it, and tossed it to her. The Scarecrow intercepted it and brought it close, examining it as he spun it in his long, white fingers. There was a label on its underside.

"Gotham Broadcasting Service," he read aloud in a tight, angry voice.

"WHAT?"

The room exploded. If GBS was here - if GBS had hidden their little cameras in the yard - they'd seen the whole day. They'd seen Ivy, bedraggled and sweating - _sweating_ - lurching around endless laps in a circle around her dead plant. They'd seen the Scarecrow being shoved into a straitjacket and having bunny ears strapped to his head. They'd seen Scarface's Snugli. They'd seen the rogues running and jumping and obeying meekly and being punished in a variety of humiliating ways for not obeying meekly enough. And not only had a television station caught their humiliation on tape, but it had been GBS, the place where everyone did their best to make people look like complete idiots.

The roar of defiance was loud, furious, and not what you'd expect from a crowd of people that were still too tired to do more than shake an angry fist from their seat. "And you just sat there an' let 'em do this to us? To you?" Scarface demanded, still upside-down in the chair.

The Joker hadn't stopped smiling. True, he smiled approximately twenty-four hours out of every day, but now he meant it.

"Children, children," he chided gently. "You seem to have forgotten something."

The rogues quieted. "Huh?"

"Editing." The Joker grinned, arms spread wide. "It takes time to put a spectacle like this together. They have to interview the staff - yes, our beloved Dr. Carlson and his merry pack of medical pranksters - not to mention all the time it takes to snip a frame here and a soundbyte there to appropriately set the scene. We won't be officially on the air for weeks." His grin pulled a bit wider. "Time enough, I think, to have a bit of fun."

* * *

><p>The next day dawned bright and clear. The sun rose, warming the concrete just in time for the double line of rogues to take their places. The pairs of handlers attached to each rogue stood at rigid attention as they waited for the main door to open.<p>

In just twenty-four hours, the lineup had changed substantially. Poison Ivy, instead of rolling her sleeves and pant legs up and undoing her top to expose as much skin to the sun as possible, had instead buttoned her jumpsuit up to her chin and unrolled everything until she was covered with grey from neck to toes. The other women had done the same, covering every glimpse of femme fatale flesh and tying their hair back in plain, unappealing ponytails. The men, who didn't generally have to work at being unattractive, concentrated on looking as unemotional as possible.

The main doors slammed open and the man in black stalked out. "_All right, people! Let's start the day off right. Drop and give me twenty!_"

The rogues sank obediently to the ground, where they laid down on their stomachs, getting comfortable with seemingly every intention of staying there and possibly taking a morning nap. The handlers assigned to each rogue reached down and hauled them back to their feet, twisting their arms slightly up behind their backs to encourage them to move a little faster. The rogues stood again in their lines, a slight smug smile on each face.

The man in black narrowed his eyes and glared at the group. "_Apparently there's been a little miscommunication_!" he bellowed. "_When I say to do something by god you're gonna do it_!"

He glared at them again. They had been instructed - repeatedly, at length, in volumes suitable for communicating across a football field - that when he spoke, they were to answer with a brisk and hearty "Yes sir!"

Instead, they answered him with nothing more than that smirky little grin. "_Let's try this again! Down and give me twenty_!"

Again, the rogues folded to the ground, stretching comfortably out on the concrete as if it was the softest of down-filled mattresses. And again, the handlers dragged them up with twisted arms and perhaps a little more force than necessary.

"_I guess we've got some folks who think they're smart today_!" The Riddler, face carefully set in a friendly smile, allowed a tiny touch of smugness to settle on his features. "_Maybe a nice five-mile run will wipe the smiles off those faces_!" The handlers immediately tugged everyone into a circle and set off for a run.

That is, they tried to. The handlers ran, shouting threats and curses at their charges as they pulled them forward. The rogues, every one, stayed limp, letting their feet trail on the concrete as their handlers dragged them along.

* * *

><p>Somewhere beyond days and weeks of mind-knotting stress is a tiny, peaceful valley where nothing matters anymore. Dr. Carlson, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, had been floating there for hours.<p>

Peacefully sipping his coffee, he watched the security feed from the yard from the little monitor perched front and center on his desk. Bills, letters, memos and reminders cluttered his desk. He ignored them in favor of watching the rogues taking their first baby steps into the world of nonviolent protest.

His door slammed open. The director of the TV show - which was going to be called either The Gallery or Payback, depending on the results from the focus groups - stomped into the office, followed by an almost supernaturally calm production assistant. "You've got to do something!" the director snapped.

"Would a hello be too much to ask for, Mr. Trent?" Dr. Carlson inquired, taking a sip of his coffee.

Mr. Trent's face turned the mottled red of someone that had mixed too much caffeine with not enough anger management. "Hello," he snarled. "Now what are you going to do about them?"

"Hmm?" Carlson asked.

"They're not doing what they're supposed to!" the man screeched.

This was hardly a new trend among the members of the rogues' gallery. Nevertheless, Carlson attempted to look as if he found it just as troubling as the director did. "I see," he said solemnly.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" Trent demanded. "Can't you put 'em all in straitjackets or throw them in the hole or something until they shape up?"

Carlson set his coffee cup very carefully in the center of his desktop and gazed levelly at the director, hands folded. "I'm sure that I don't have to remind you that this is an asylum. We are supposed to be providing a safe place for our patients to heal themselves." He held up a hand, cutting off the director's indignant snort. "Admittedly, you and your crew are not exactly standard in an asylum - but then, this group of patients is not exactly standard either. In answer to your question - no. I will not authorize the use of restraints in this situation."

"But you used them yesterday!"

"Jonathan Crane ended up in a straitjacket yesterday because he thought he could get away with punching one of his handlers in the face," Carlson explained patiently. "And I'm sure you have ample footage of Ms. Quinzelle's martial arts bout with her two guards. Straitjackets, in short, are only used when a patient is a danger to himself or others." He glanced at the monitor, noting the Riddler sitting cross-legged and smiling into the distance as a pair of handlers harangued him. "Standing still and refusing to cooperate does not appear to fit those criteria."

"Listen, doc," Trent snarled, slamming his fists down onto the desk. His red face shoved itself up to Carlson's, filling his vision. "You make them behave right now or we're pulling the show."

Carlson eyed the man quizzically. "If I could make them behave, do you believe that they'd still be incarcerated here?" The director scowled at him and hauled himself off of the desk. "My advice is not to worry about it."

"Don't worry about it?" Human faces should not be purple, and yet the director's was clearly heading in that direction. "We've dropped hundreds of thousands of dollars on cameras and crew and handlers and you're telling me _not to worry about it_?"

"Yes." Carlson smiled gently at the director. "None of our charges take well to being passive. The Joker's been known to shoot his henchmen over bringing him the wrong kind of sandwich. How long do you think he'll put up with this kind of treatment?" He gestured to the monitor, where the Joker was barely visible behind a cluster of black-hatted handlers shouting directly into his face. "They won't stay calm for long. Enjoy it while it lasts."

* * *

><p>The silence lasted for a full week. For seven days, the rogues remained limp and uncooperative. For seven days, the men and women in black shouted themselves hoarse at their unmoving charges. For seven long, hot, sunny days the yard echoed with useless threats and unheeded orders.<p>

Of course, that wasn't the only problem with the shoot. There were always problems with any taping, whether it was dead microphone batteries or blown out lightbulbs, and the filming inside Arkham Asylum was no different. Cameras bolted to the walls behind disguising artwork went missing and weren't noticed until someone attempted to use them. Tapes left in the monitor room overnight vanished without a trace.

On the eighth morning, the rogues were herded into the yard as usual. But, unusually, their handlers were nowhere in sight. On the walls, no snipers peered down at them. The rogues gathered in a loose group and waited, silently watching the door.

The door slammed open, and a man in black stormed in. Not _the_ man in black - no, this pudgy specimen of t-shirted manhood didn't have a wide-brimmed hat or shiny shoes. Instead, it was the director - the director who had carefully removed every hint of his directorial day job from his wardrobe before walking into the yard. His incandescently red face glowed furiously at the rogues as he glared at them.

"What did you do?" he snarled, slamming the door behind him with a kick of one sneaker-clad foot. "They're all missing. What did you _do_?"

"Us?" the Joker twinkled, putting an innocent hand over his heart. "Why, what could we _possibly_ do to our loving helpers while we're locked up in this highly secure asylum?" Stifled chuckles rose from the carefully nonchalant group.

"Don't you play stupid with me!" The man stalked across the concrete and grabbed the Joker, shaking him by the shoulders before slamming him to the ground. "You did something! Bring them back! You're ruining everything!"

The Joker rose to his feet, gently brushing dust from the sleeves of his grey jumpsuit. "Did we spoil your little television show?" the Joker said softly.

The director's white-hot rage abruptly cooled. "You...knew about that?" he stammered.

"Indeed, Herr Director," the Joker said, a slow grin stretching his mouth. "But I think we can give the folks at home something to be entertained by. What's that saying?" He tapped a finger thoughtfully on his lips as the rogues began to close in around them. "Ah yes. If it bleeds...it leads."

"No. No, wait, I can - _don't_!"

The director disappeared in the sudden swarm of grey-suited rogues.

(_to be continued_)


	4. Revenge

The front steps of Arkham Asylum were a familiar haunt for the news crews of Gotham City. Through the years, the ancient, worn stone had held correspondents reporting on everything from unexpected escapes to brand-new inmates. Today, they were packed rail to rail with reporters from every channel that had an office in Gotham. The news crews eyed each other with familiar contempt and casually shifted toward the spots with the best view of the podium on the top landing.

"So what's the deal?" a GBS cameraman asked, keeping an eye on his equipment while he relaxed in the company of his camera-toting cohorts from other channels.

"Can't be an escape," another pointed out, pausing to take a drag on his cigarette. "Someone woulda told us before now."

"Maybe it's that boat thing."

"Boat thing?" A man with CHUCK stitched on his work-issued shirt looked up from his coffee, confused.

"You didn't hear?" the GBS guy asked incredulously.

Chuck rolled his eyes. "I was up till two last night helping Miss Priss up there edit some stupid story about a surfing squirrel." He nodded to a reporter, who was staring fixedly at herself in a small mirror. "What I wouldn't give to be working with Vicki Vale," he added enviously.

"You and me both," muttered the GBS man.

"So...the boat thing?"

"Oh, yeah. You know that old prison boat? That one Bolton had the mayor on?" Chuck nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Some tourist on a motorboat was gawping at it and heard someone screaming. When the cops showed up, they found fifty people in black uniforms strapped to bombs walking around some track so they wouldn't blow up. Weird, right?"

Chuck's answer, if there was one, was drowned out by the flurry of activity on the stairs as the front doors opened. Dr. Carlson, head of the asylum, took his place at the podium, flanked by his staff of psychiatrists. The cameramen immediately darted to their tripods.

Dr. Carlson looked out at the crowd, chin held high. "Good morning," he said briskly. "I won't waste your time or mine with pretty words. I'm here to announce that as of today, Arkham Asylum is officially closed."

"What?" gasped half a dozen members of the crowd.

Carlson favored them with a ghost of a smile. "To put it simply, we no longer have the funds to continue operating. We can no longer afford to house, feed, and treat this city's population of mentally ill inhabitants." He looked directly into the cluster of cameras. "The residents of this city have made it abundantly clear that we, and our patients, are an insufferable problem. Allow me to return the favor." A pair of doctors, grim-faced, swung the doors open behind him. "From now on, our patients are _your_ problem."

A cascade of former inmates poured out of the doors toward freedom. Men and women clad in the clothing they'd been arrested in (or secondhand castoffs from charity organizations) streamed past the reporters. Some took a moment to smile or gibber in a vaguely friendly fashion at the crowd. Others ignored everything in favor of putting as much space between themselves and the asylum as possible. At the end of the driveway, a pack of buses waited to ferry them to their final destinations.

The crowd of normally-dressed ex-inmates faded to a trickle. Then, filling the doorway in all their colorful, deadly glory, the Rogues Gallery of Gotham City sauntered into the sunlight. "Hi, Mom!" the Joker crowed, waving gleefully at the bank of cameras. Harley Quinn, at his side, blew them a kiss. The Riddler, passing by with a henchgirl on each arm, tipped his hat to the cameras and skipped merrily down the steps. The Scarecrow, possibly smiling under his mask, made it his business to stare down anyone who happened to be where he wanted to go.

The crowd of news crews, who had been struck speechless at the sight of Gotham's population of minor criminals, froze in place at the sight of Gotham's most infamous heading directly at them. Then, with the enthusiasm shown by people who really, really wanted to see tomorrow, they threw themselves out of the rogues' paths and watched in silence as they strolled along.

"B-but you can't just let _them_ go!" A teenager with a boom mic, immediately regretting her outburst, dove behind her crew in an attempt not to be instantly killed as the last of the rogues passed by.

"What am I to do? Keep them in my basement?" Carlson looked the cameras directly in the lenses, ignoring the pack of reporters waving hands for his attention. "I could tell you about the deplorable state of mental health care in this country, particularly the lack of long-term care facilities, but the long and short of it is that every bed in every institution from here to Metropolis is full. Not only that, but no one else has the capacity to care for our inmates with...special needs. We've managed to find most of them jobs and places to live. The rest..." He sighed. "Well, maybe the rest will work something out for themselves."

"You can't just let _the Joker_ out!" gasped someone in the crowd.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me. _The asylum is closed_." Dr. Carlson took off his ID badge and tossed it carelessly behind him into the empty building. "If you have any further questions, take it up with the mayor."

The doctor and his staff shoved past the news crews and trudged to the parking lot. Cameramen refocused on their shaking, unnerved reporters. "A-and there you have it," one stammered, clutching his microphone like a safety blanket. "Arkham Asylum is closed. We'll be sure to keep you updated as further news breaks."

* * *

><p>Dick Grayson, sometimes known as Nightwing, sighed with complete and utter bliss as he inhaled downtown Gotham's wonderfully familiar fetid stench. He was home. Well, perhaps not <em>home<em> - after all, his apartment in Bludhaven was miles away - but at least he was on the right planet again. Being in a city that he'd prowled countless times as a teenager was merely the icing on the cake. The cherry atop this confection of happiness was the fact that, for the first time in days, he was out of his Nightwing gear and in a pair of delightfully comfortable blue jeans.

When the call had come to save Keystone City, he and the rest of the Justice League - even the lowest of the low-ranking heroes - had flocked to the threat as soon as they could. The giant green scaly monster had fought them, and they'd fought back. It had tried moving to other cities, and they'd followed it. It had tried to go back to its home planet, and the Justice League piled into their few spaceships like schoolchildren on a field trip and took off after him.

The ships were small, sleek, and suitable for crews of ten or less. At least fifty heroes had crammed themselves onto each one. They'd followed the alien monster, stopped it from wrecking some landmark on its home planet, won the trust and favor of its government, forged a peace that would last across the centuries, and all that typical stuff that the League tended to do. And now, at last, they were home, free to stretch out and do whatever they pleased. And right now, after days of half-rations and alien cuisine, nothing would be quite as pleasing as a gorgeous, luscious, mass-manufactured burger from a cheap burger chain.

The neon lights of a nearby convenience store blinked a cheerful greeting to him as he sauntered toward a Happy Cow burger joint. He strolled inside, basking in the cheerfully tacky decor that was as familiar as the back of his hand. Bright posters on the walls advertised burgers with every imaginable condiment and topping combined in dozens of delicious ways. A plastic cow statue wearing the Happy Cow uniform waved robotically in the center of the dining area. Music from the kid's play area chirped through the air. "Tip to the left! Moo! Tip to the right! I'm a happy cow!" chipper voices chanted enthusiastically.

"May I take your order, sir?" a hideously familiar voice crooned.

Dick looked at the counter so quickly that he nearly snapped his neck. Behind the cash register, clad in a cheerfully clashing uniform of rust-brown and golden yellow, there was the Joker, beaming at him from underneath a standard-issue visor with TRAINEE stitched on it in bright yellow letters.

"You!" Dick gasped, stumbling as he pulled himself out of his instinctive combat stance. Civilians did not threaten to punch the Joker in the nose, nor were they generally trained in nineteen different methods of doing so.

"Watch your step," the Joker said, a hint of concern - CONCERN? - in his voice. "I just mopped." He cleared his throat, then, like any good fast-food robot, he recited "Welcome to the Happy Cow, home of Henrietta the Happy Heifer! Can I interest you in trying our Bovine Bacon Bonanza, with two quarter-pound patties and three layers of crispy bacon?'

Was this really Earth? Had they fallen into some weird alternate dimension on the way home where the Joker was a normal, average guy? No. Even if there were infinite dimensions, there would never be one where the Joker was _good_. "I...ah...no. No. I'm...not hungry." Dick backed toward the door, watching for the Joker's inevitable attack. He had to be up to something. There must be some trick, some plot, some evil plan to poison Gotham.

The Joker pouted. "Seems like no one wants burgers today. So much for the profit margin, eh, boss?"

Dick risked a glance toward the empty seating area. The manager - with the word MANAGER helpfully stitched on his shirt - nodded miserably in agreement with his infamous employee and edged a little farther back into the relative safety of the plastic booth.

Without another word, Dick fled into the street. His immediate instinct - to go suit up and kick some clown ass - was tempered by the fact that the Joker was certainly intelligent enough to notice that Nightwing had the exact same haircut, build, and skin tone as the guy in the 'Property of Bludhaven PD' t-shirt that had been there moments beforehand. No, this situation would require a different approach. He pulled out his cell phone. "Bruce? You're not going to believe this..."

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes later, the door to the Happy Cow slammed open, shattering the glass. In one bound, a black-caped figure hurtled through the air and snatched the Joker by the neck, slamming him down on the countertop with well-practiced brutality. "You're going back to Arkham," Batman growled.<p>

The Joker blinked up at him with his very best innocent expression. "Haven't you been watching the news?" the Joker lilted, or at least, as much as it was possible to lilt with a fist wrapped around your windpipe. "Arkham's shut. Gone forever."

"What?" Batman growled, expecting the punch of a punchline or the ever-humorous attempt to stab him in the back while he was distracted.

"It's true, Bats. So sad that such a fine old establishment should close its doors. I have such dear memories of the place. The beatings, the torture, those fascinating little electrical devices...ah, but I suppose one can't expect the inmates to take over the asylum _every_ day." He leered, fond and bloody memories obviously playing out behind those bright green eyes.

"Uh...Batman?" Someone was tapping on his shoulder. Batman briefly glanced to the side to see a balding man in a Happy Cow Manager uniform waiting politely for his attention. "He's right. I mean, the asylum's closed," he said. "The man in charge said that they were closing because they couldn't afford to stay open." He paused, noticing the purplish flush of oxygen starvation creeping over the Joker's face. "Can you...uh, can you let him go? He's not doing anything wrong."

Batman stared at him with the kind of intense, burning silence that begged to be filled with answers.

"I hired him," the man went on miserably. "The man at the asylum was looking for jobs for the cra- um, the ex-inmates," he corrected, frantically trying to avoid calling the Joker crazy to his face. "I said I'd give one a chance, so they gave me...him," he said, trying to sound happy about it.

Batman grudgingly let the Joker up. The clown jumped to his feet, immediately taking his position behind the register. "So, Bats..." he grinned. "Can I take your order?"

Batman leveled a glare at him. "I'll be back," he promised grimly.

"Wanna go see a movie?" the Joker offered coquettishly. "I'll be off at eleven."

"You can go now, if you want to," the manager offered desperately as Batman swept toward the door. "I can hold down the fort by myself."

"Oh, I couldn't!" The Joker held a hand patriotically to his heart. "A good employee never leaves his post! And I'm a good employee, right, boss?"

The manager looked at his restaurant, with its empty dining area, broken door, and resignation notes from all his other employees piled in a heap on his little desk in the back. "You're perfect," he said, suicidal depression lurking behind every word.

Batman left the Joker to his subtle terrorizing of the manager and grapneled up into the night sky. Arkham, closed? Not if _he_ had anything to say about it.

(_to be continued_)

_Author's Note: I borrowed the prison ship from the animated series episode "Lock-Up". I also may have borrowed a certain something from a certain Arkham-based video game. I definitely borrowed some lyrics from the great Luke Ski's Dada Slide. Hyperactive flamingo forever, y'all!_


	5. When A Door Closes, A Window Opens

Connections Incorporated was where ethics went to die. In their offices, which filled an entire floor of the Von Gruenwald Tower, cubicles were packed into nearly every square inch of floor space. A computer glowed in each one, the screens filled with sales scripts and order forms. The air was full of sound - an endless wave of voices promising the quality of this and lying about the usefulness of that, edged with the nervousness of people whose livelihoods depend on getting a perfect score on their next customer survey - as well as the scent of hundreds of desperate people sweating to get that next sale on their record. Because this was the late shift, the mixed odors of coffee and energy drinks laid on top of it all like a musty blanket.

There was a break room. It was not a particularly well-equipped break room - after all, when you were careful to staff your center only with part-time workers, no one legally ever needed a break - but it existed in tribute to times past, when employees were valued and the customer was sometimes wrong. It was just big enough to hold a table, a few chairs, a TV and a tiny kitchenette.

Edward Nygma, tongue poking slightly out of his mouth, was seated in one of the break room's threadbare old armchairs. He squinted at the old CRT screen, maneuvering a little pixelated blue-green man through a hazardous forest with the aid of the grey controller clutched in his hands. "C'mon, c'mon," he muttered as the little man pulled himself up onto a platform just in time to avoid a swarm of tiny tentacle-faced monsters.

A newspaper rustled as it was folded neatly in fourths. "Are you _still_ playing that game?" Jonathan Crane asked, tossing the paper aside and picking up a new one from the stack piled on the floor next to him.

"Are you _still_ reading last year's newspapers?" Eddie shot back, thumping the controller onto his lap in frustration as his character was trampled by a huge red beast.

"At least the newspapers are somewhat useful."

"So is this. It's a puzzle game," he said defensively.

The door opened. A young man, gaze carefully averted from the rogues, scuttled to the freezer and yanked out his dinner. Ignoring the microwave, he dashed back out of the room, intent on putting as much distance as he could between himself and the break room. Crane smiled to himself and returned to his newspaper.

The manager of the center, a whip-thin woman with a generous amount of bushy hair, stuck her head into the breakroom. "How's it going, gentlemen?"

"Fine," Eddie said, half-absorbed into the video game.

"Indeed," Crane agreed.

"Good, good. You know productivity's been up twenty-five percent since you guys signed on?" She grinned. The wind breezed through the open window and ruffled the papers in her clipboard. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Dinner would be good," Eddie volunteered, eyes locked on the screen.

"Is pizza okay?"

"Yeah. No olives!" Eddie said. Onscreen, a green alien in metal pants made a rude noise.

"Gotcha. Back in a few!" She smiled and left, closing the door briskly behind her. As it shut, the flimsy walls rattled. The picture disappeared on the screen for the thousandth time. Eddie threw the controller to the ground and stalked to the television, gently moving the wires in an attempt to get his game working again.

"You could just take the game home with you," Crane suggested.

"Why would I want to do that?" Eddie said, moving wires at snail-slow speeds. "Free food, free entertainment, no police...sounds like a good place to me. Besides, I think I can do some great things with all those telephone lines out there. Ah!" The picture fizzled back on. "Just let me know what day you plan to break out the toxin, and I'll call in sick."

"Who said that I would experiment on anyone _here_?" Crane asked, affronted.

"Why else would you stick around?"

Crane scowled at Eddie and displayed his left forearm, which was wrapped in an Arkham-issue plaster cast. Beating the ex-director to a pulp had been a great deal of fun until he'd fought back. "I won't be up to continuing my research for several weeks yet," he pointed out. "And, as you said, this is a tolerable place to wait."

"Better than what they did to Joker," Eddie said, settling back into his armchair. "I heard that they assigned him to some burger joint downtown."

"That doesn't compare to where they placed Croc. Working for a laundry service is bad enough, but a _diaper_ service? He didn't even bother showing up."

"They still have those?" Eddie said, not really paying attention. The character onscreen moved up to a lever and froze. "Wait. Why would that bother him? Doesn't he live in the sewer?"

"I believe that he stays in the rainwater drainage tunnels."

"Oh."

A car alarm blared mindlessly on the street far below. Crane set his newspaper down and stood up, intending to close the window and block out the irritating noise.

Batman stood just outside, glaring in at the two of them, arms crossed. Crane yelped and twitched backward. Then, remembering himself, he glared back at the Dark Knight and slammed the window shut on him, yanking the blinds down just for good measure.

* * *

><p>Batman glared at the hastily shut miniblinds. Then, without really looking, he grapneled up and away from the rickety fire escape into the rooftops of Gotham.<p>

Seeing the Joker working as a burger jockey had been unnerving, to say the least. Finding the Scarecrow and the Riddler working as telemarketers - if you could call that _working_ - had been equally disturbing. All over the city, rogues and other Arkham graduates were working side-by-side with normal, average people. It was an accident (or possibly an "accident") waiting to happen. Something was bound to go wrong. He'd patrol all night, if he had to -

And there was the problem. He'd patrol all night, because what else could he do?

Bruce Wayne had enough money to purchase and fund Arkham for the next five years without missing a dime of it. However, Bruce had been on an undisclosed vacation during the recent alien fiasco, and no good would come of drawing attention to that fact. Once Gotham's army of too-smart-for-their-own-good reporters realized that both Bruce and Batman were out of town at the same time, it wouldn't take long for one of them to realize exactly whose face lurked beneath the mask. So Bruce directly donating money to Arkham was out.

Of course, there were always dummy corporations to funnel money through. Some of them had attempted to donate some money to the asylum. They had all been politely turned away by the bank, which claimed that Dr. Carlson was no longer accepting donations.

His gaze flicked toward the large clock adorning the middle of Von Gruenwald's east facade. Eight o'clock. Harvey Dent and Pamela Isley were due to show up for their janitorial jobs at Wayne Enterprises in half an hour, along with a handful of other Arkham graduates. They were unlikely to actually be there, but he'd take a few minutes out of his patrol and make sure that nothing too terrible was going on -

Alfred's voice interrupted his thoughts. He listened to the message and nodded with satisfaction. The patrol would have to wait. He stepped off of the rooftop and vanished into the night.

* * *

><p>In all the world, there was no better invention than the mattress. In particular, the apex of human ingenuity had to be this mattress, which had a pillow-top two full inches thick covering an array of scientifically designed springs and air pockets that guaranteed a sound night's sleep for anyone that rested so much as a finger on its soft, smooth surface.<p>

Dr. Carlson sprawled limply in his wonderfully comfortable bed, feeling the tension of the last ten years melting out of his bones. Muscles that had been knotted for months were slowly untangling themselves. The constant pounding of a headache behind his eyes, like a kid throwing a tennis ball at a garage door, had faded blissfully away to a calm, peaceful tranquillity.

Of course, the mattress wasn't the only thing keeping him happy. A half-bottle of his favorite wine stood upright on the nightstand, accompanied by a crystal wine glass and a plate containing some leftover bits and pieces of his steak and potato dinner. A portable stereo sent a gentle wave of Debussy drifting through the air. And, naturally, the fact that he was in a five-star Bludhaven hotel instead of his own half-empty apartment was doing wonders for his peace of mind.

A cool breeze brushed across his face. He pulled the blankets up over his face, wishing that he'd thought to close the window.

A shrill red voice of alarm shrieked in his head. He hadn't ever _opened_ the window! In a move that was surprisingly athletic for a sedentary professional, he swung himself out of bed and flung himself toward the wall, snapping on the lights and scooping up the baseball bat, whirling to confront the crazed ex-inmate seeking to torture, maim, or kill him -

There was no ex-inmate in his room. There was, in fact, no one in his room but him. He blew out a long, grateful sigh, letting the tip of the bat thud uselessly down into the densely piled carpet.

"Feeling a little nervous, doctor?"

Carlson shrieked at the feel of hot breath on the back of his neck and spun around, stumbling over the bat and landing in a graceless heap on the floor. Batman loomed over him, glaring that glare that Carlson had come to know and hate.

"How did you find me?" he snapped, throwing the baseball bat aside as he stood up. "I didn't use my real name when I checked into this hotel. And what are you doing out of Gotham, anyway?"

Batman regarded him levelly. "You used your credit card for your room service."

Carlson raked a hand through his hair. "Great. If you found me, _they_ could. Well, if you'll excuse me, I have to pack-"

"You need to re-open Arkham." Vigilante crimefighters were unfamiliar with the concept of personal space, which was possibly why the nose of Batman's mask was suddenly within six inches of Carlson's face.

"That's not my decision!" Carlson said, desperately scooting backward. He sat down hard on the bed. "I'm not in charge anymore! I -"

"Do you know what you've done?" Batman growled softly.

"I had no choice!" Carlson shot to his feet. "For years - _years_ - the asylum ran on a shoestring budget. Do you know how much it costs to feed and house our patients? Thirty thousand dollars a year for _just one patient_ and then there's the cost of medicines, therapy, security, not to mention the thousands we spend to maintain cells for Fries and the other special-needs patients! And that doesn't even come _close_ to the amount we've had to spend to rebuild what the rogues destroy when they escape." He met Batman's glare with a glare of his own. "I might also bring up the extensive medical bills resulting from broken bones, dislocations and such. You are aware that _someone_ has to pay for what you break, aren't you?" He raised his chin defiantly. "I did my best. Do you think I wanted GBS putting my patients on TV? Do you think I _wanted_ to let my patients back into Gotham before they were ready? I had _no choice_." He let out a loud, explosive sigh. "Besides, I can't reopen Arkham, even if I had the money."

"Why?"

Carlson laughed a painful, scorn-filled laugh. "Do you think there's an Arkham to go back to? It's been gutted. Computers, mattresses, hell, even the artwork's gone. Did you know that the key to the Joker's cell sold at auction for fifty thousand dollars? There's nothing left. Unless you've got a couple billion dollars under that cape, you can forget about Arkham." His heart thudded painfully fast in his chest. He shut his eyes and took a long, calming breath, trying to think of happy (or at least neutral) thoughts.

When he opened his eyes again, Batman was gone. Carlson slammed the window shut, locked it, and yanked the curtains closed. Then, slapping the stereo off, he started stuffing his belongings back into his suitcase.

(_to be continued_)


	6. Making an Appearance

In times of trouble, nothing is as comforting as knowing that you are not alone. Horrible diseases, natural disasters, and unfairly-graded tests sting a little less when you know that you're not the only one being hurt by them. And, of course, if your group is large enough, often you can manage to get things done to fix your problem by sheer force of numbers.

The Gotham Public Library was a perennial home for anyone looking for public support. The concrete plaza just in front of one snarling stone lion had hosted protests, vigils, and demonstrations through the long decades. At the moment, it held one lonely little table festooned with brightly colored banners.

"REBUILD ARKHAM", they proclaimed in eye-searing neon. "KEEP OUR CITY SAFE! SIGN NOW!" Stacks of petitions, held in place on their shiny clipboards, were stacked in piles on either side of the table. Pens in cheerful Gotham-skyline mugs bristled in hopeful clumps.

Barbara Gordon slouched behind the table, resting her head on the pillar holding the stone lion. In the five hours that she'd been soliciting signatures, she'd managed to get two people to put their names to paper. And while 'Kuk Pu' was at least an _inventive_ fake name, it wasn't exactly helping the cause.

Dick Grayson, one hand behind his back, strolled up to the table and leaned casually against it. "How's it going?"

Barbara took a swig of her bottled water before leveling an overly perky false grin at her visitor. "Oh, it's amazing. Just look at all of these signatures!"

Dick picked up the lone clipboard with its lonely pair of names and looked it over. "Cook Poo?" he snorted.

"Yeah. Like I said, this day has been simply amazing." She stood up and arched back into a stretch, twisting briskly to crack her back into a more comfortable alignment.

"Aw, cheer up. I brought you some lunch," Dick enticed, waving a bag in front of her face.

She tore into it like a kid opening a birthday present. Cheeseburgers were emphatically on the Do-Not-Eat list for superheroes - or at least, superheroes working under Batman's supervision - which was one good reason to devour one in full view of the public. After all, Batgirl certainly wouldn't be indulging in a Double-Stacked Bellyburger with extra mayo, right? Another reason, and perhaps the most pressing one, was that Big Belly Burgers were the best burgers in Gotham City, with their perfect blend of beef, cheese, and gallons of grease.

A squeal of delight echoed from the sidewalk far in front of them. "Oh, look at the pretty banners!"

Barbara, cheeks bulging with delicious cheeseburger, hastily stuffed her food back into the bag in preparation to greet some potential signers. She tucked her hair behind her ear, glanced up at the newcomers, and promptly choked on her food.

"Yes, I've heard that Big Belly burgers can do that to you." The Joker, in his brown-and-yellow Happy Cow work uniform, smiled politely at her. Harley Quinn, clinging to his left arm, giggled at Barbara's face, which was almost as red as Harley's Mighty Maids polo shirt. The Joker picked up her drink, popped off the lid, and delicately sniffed the contents. "And what is this - a bacon chocolate milkshake? Oh dear, oh dear. You know they're made with seaweed, right?"

"What do you want?" Dick snarled.

"Well, _that's_ no way to win people over to your cause," he said, setting the cup back down on the table. "Nice banners, Babsy! Does daddy dearest know that you're advocating for the return of that nasty old asylum?"

"Yes, he does. He supports it, too," Barbara snapped.

"As well he should! An upstanding gentleman like that certainly knows what's best for our fair city."

Harley grinned. "How is the Commish, anyway? Did he get our fruit basket?"

"Yes," Barbara said shortly. Commissioner Gordon had indeed gotten their fruit basket, which had arrived as a collection of sliced fruit arranged in the shape of a jolly dancing clown. It had immediately been sent to the forensics lab, where it had been diced, sliced, tested, and found to be surprisingly free of anything deadly.

"Now, about your petition," the Joker said, sliding his free hand into his pocket. The two plainclothes Bats tensed in readiness as he pulled out a horribly dangerous...ballpoint pen. "Where do I sign?"

"We don't need your signature," Dick said, pulling the clipboard away.

"Oh no? Seems to me like you could use every signature you can get," the Joker said, glancing sideways at the stacks of empty forms on either end of the table.

"Why would you want Arkham reopened, anyway?" Barbara said crossly.

"Ah, well. Arkham may be a lousy, damp, rat-infested hellhole of a place, but it's home," the Joker sighed fondly.

"An' it's where we met!" Harley added, cuddling a little closer to him.

He lovingly chucked her under the chin. "Aw, pumpkin pie," he cooed, rubbing the tip of his nose on hers. She stole a kiss. He returned it with gusto, bending her backward into a picture-perfect dip.

"All right, all right!" Barbara snapped, shoving a clipboard at them. "Just sign it, okay?"

"I'd be more than happy to." With a few more clicks of his pen, he signed the paper with a big swirly flourish. Harley signed as well, with a little smiley face dotting the I in 'Quinn'.

"Well, we'll let you get back to your...lunch." With one final disappointed look at her food, the Joker and Harley strolled off, arm-in-arm.

Barbara tore their sheet from its clipboard, wadded it up, and stuffed it into her lunch bag. With a perfect sidearm throw, the bag sailed through the air and landed neatly in the top of the nearest garbage can. "This is not going to work," she scowled.

"Plan B?" Dick asked, glaring at the clowns as they disappeared from view.

"Plan B," she agreed grimly.

* * *

><p>Batman crept into the penthouse bedroom. His booted feet sank softly into the thick, plush carpeting. His target - a portly, balding man - snored happily beneath his layers of fluffy blankets. Night-vision-lensed eyes flicked over the scattered detritus of the room. Books lay in haphazard piles on the bedside tables. A half-empty bag of cookies yawned wide-open on the floor near an extremely complicated-looking calculator.<p>

Batman stooped and picked up a broken cookie. Then, with a flick of his gloved fingers, he tossed it directly into the man's face.

With a snorting, blaring noise like a breaching whale, the man jerked awake. "_Spiders_!" he shrieked, clawing at his face. The cookie fell into his desperately searching hand. "...oh," he said, squinting at the treat in the dim moonlight. Then, with a shrug, he popped it into his mouth.

Batman loomed out of the darkness and promptly dodged aside to avoid the panicked spray of cookie crumbs shooting through the air at him.

"Bat...batman?" the man choked. He grabbed a glass of water and took a swig, gulping down the remains of the cookie. "What are you doing here? I haven't done anything, or...you are Batman, right?"

"Batman?" A blonde head popped up from the blankets, a million-dollar smile on her gorgeous face. "Wow, is that Batman? For real? You really _do_ know everyone!" She gave her bedmate an enthusiastic hug. Then, with a coy wave, she asked "Can I have your autograph, Mr. Batman?"

Ignoring her, Batman concentrated his glare on the cookie-crumb-covered man. "I, ah, think he wants to talk to me...alone," he stammered. "Can you go in the other room for a minute, hon?"

"But Richie darling, I want to-"

"Please," he interrupted, giving her a desperate look.

"Okay," she pouted. She flounced out of the bed, silk pajamas rippling gently, and slipped into a marabou-trimmed bathrobe. She sashayed into her slippers and swayed toward the hallway. "Love you, schmoopsy," she said, pausing at the door.

"I love you too," he said, darting a sheepish glance at Batman. She stood in the doorway, watching him expectantly. "...fluffy-buns," he muttered. She smiled, waved a cheerful good-bye to Batman, and swept out of the room.

Richie "Schmoopsy" Neary looked pleadingly at Batman, the words "please don't say fluffy-buns" almost visible in his eyes.

"A little young for you, isn't she?" Batman asked drily.

"She loves me," Schmoopsy said defiantly. "I know what you're thinking - she only loves my money. Well, you're wrong, because she loves my books too!"

Batman eyed him dubiously. "She likes quantum mechanics?"

"We met last year at Quanticon. She was the keynote speaker on the string theory track. You should read her paper on chiral fermions!" His eyes glowed with intellectual lust.

Batman's face remained in its usual mask of disapproval edged with the threat of sudden violence. Inside, though, a little spark of jealousy bloomed into life. How long had it been since he'd been on a date with a girl that knew that quantum mechanics didn't have anything to do with her BMW? Ah, but then again, smart girls were more likely to figure out that he wasn't really going fishing or attending to late-night paperwork or any of the other excuses that had gotten him away from countless socialites through the years.

Schmoopsy settled his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "So, uh...what can I do for you?"

Batman loomed a little closer. "Does the name Franz Altfa mean anything to you?"

The man paled. "Altfa's a fine researcher," he stammered.

"Whose research you stole," Batman finished, pinning him with his trademark You've-Made-Me-Angry glare.

"No! We just published our papers at the same time! I didn't...I would never..." He paused. "Are you _blackmailing_ me?" Glare. "You are, aren't you? If I don't play along with whatever you want me to do you're going to tell everyone that I plagiarized Altfa's research! Which is a total lie," he added hastily. Glare. The only sound in the room was the subtle creaking of gloves as hands turned into fists.

Schmoopsy was a smart man. And, as criminals had done for years, he asked himself The Question: Is it really smart to have an argument with the Batman? "All right, all right," he sighed, raking a hand through his hair and disgustedly shaking a handful of shedded strands to the floor. "What do you need me to do?

Batman leaned closer. Schmoopsy edged backward in the bed, shoulders connecting with the bedframe, as Batman filled his entire field of vision. The edge of the headboard bit into his neck. Those eyes, glowing in the dark, burned into his vision and sent icy spasms of dread racing up and down his spine.

"I want you," Batman growled, subtle menace coloring his voice, "to go to a party."

(_to be continued_)

_Author's Note: 'The Killing Joke' never happened. Hey, if DC can retcon it away, so can I. Also, 'Cook Pu' is not an inventive fake name, at least when you steal it from a certain sitcom involving the sheer awesome that is Neil Patrick Harris. _


	7. Quick Change

There was no party like a Gotham party, particularly when billionaires were involved. Charles Griffith's expansive mansion buzzed with the susurrus of the wealthy wandering about, eating, drinking, dancing, and pointedly not mentioning how they'd received their invitations. Everything in the room gleamed with the soft glisten that only shows up on things worth more than an average person's yearly salary. Tuxedoed waiters with heavily laden trays drifted through the crowd.

A slightly pudgy hand snatched a glass of champagne as it sailed by. "What I don't understand," Dr. Carlson said, squinting at the crowd, "is why so many people showed up! Our last fundraiser was a complete disaster."

Bruce Wayne shrugged his expensively dressed shoulders and took a bite of a caviar niblet. "I understand that Mr. Griffith's party planner is very...persuasive," he said, tipping the rest of the treat into his mouth.

"But this?" Carlson stared in jealous awe at the swarm of socialites occupying the intricately laid parquet floor in front of him. "I'd like to meet this party planner sometime."

A faint smile slipped across Bruce's face. "I believe you already have. Oh, Natalie! I'd like you to meet Dr. Carlson, director of Arkham Asylum."

"_Former_ director," Carlson emphasized, shaking the hand of the willowy blonde being shoved at him.

"Natalie is Mr. Griffith's daughter. She's doing her thesis paper on schizo-something or other - "

"Schizophrenogenesis," Natalie corrected.

"Right. That," Bruce agreed. "Maybe you could share some insights with her?"

"Oh, no, I don't want to bother him! It's really not that important," she protested, blushing slightly as Dr. Carlson smiled at her.

"For the daughter of the man who is trying to save Arkham Asylum, I would move mountains," he said gallantly. "And talking about schizophrenogenesis is hardly an inconvenience."

"Really?" She perked up, absently setting her champagne glass down on a handcrafted set of Promemoria nesting tables.

"Really. Are you concentrating on the dopamine theory?"

While Batman was interested in mental illness, or at least the bits of it that made his nights so interesting, Bruce Wayne was more interested in pretty girls. He excused himself from the conversation and mingled his way toward a cluster of beautiful-looking potential alibis.

An elbow bumped into his. "I'm sorry," both men said, turning to face one another. "Bruce Wayne!" Jim Gordon exclaimed.

"Commissioner," Bruce smiled back. "And Barbara," he said, smiling at the redhead as she wrestled the enormously fluffy skirt of her yellow dress in between party guests. "I thought you'd be attending with a different date. Everything all right with you and Dick?" he added as he registered a pinched, tight look lurking behind her party-manners expression.

"Oh, that _boy_!" she snapped.

"What's he done now?" Bruce said, one eyebrow raised.

"It's...can we talk privately?" she said, looking around.

"Of course."

"We'll be back in a minute, Daddy," Barbara said, grabbing Bruce by the arm and towing him into a hallway just off of the ballroom. The party-manners smile immediately disappeared from her face as she yanked off her satin gloves.

"Trouble?"

"Rogues in a van out front," Barbara said tersely. "They haven't made a move yet."

Bruce shrugged out of his jacket and popped off his tie. "How many?" he asked, rapidly unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his chest armor.

"At least seven," she answered, wriggling out of her fluffy dress. "Nightwing's on the roof, watching them. The GCPD are on the way, but they won't be here for another ten minutes." She pawed at the layers of her skirt, revealing a kind of saddlebag stuffed with her Batsuit. A further two yielded her cowl as well as his. "There's got to be a better way to hide these," she said, yanking her hair through the carefully cut hole in the back of her cowl before settling it down on the bridge of her nose.

There was a better way. Unfortunately, that better way was holed up in Griffith's immense kitchen, teaching a handful of caterers how to make a perfect batch of lemon madeleines as per the plaintive request of Charles himself. Such were the perils of being the Batman's batman.

The discarded tuxedo sailed into an enormous bronze urn, followed shortly by the almost spherical pouf of Barbara's dress. "Let's go," Batman ordered, heading toward the ballroom. Batgirl skittered after him, yanking one glove on with her teeth as she clipped her belt into place with her other hand.

* * *

><p>Dr. Carlson had rather enjoyed his evening. It wasn't often that a pretty young thing cornered him to talk his ear off about psychiatry. "Did he really faint when they pulled the gauze out of her nose?" she asked eagerly.<p>

"Well, of course in his letter he denies it," Carlson said, chuckling, "but-"

A gunshot cracked into the air. Natalie squeaked and darted behind Carlson as he rose on tiptoe to see what was going on.

The Scarecrow, gun held in one upraised hand, observed the crowd through the ragged holes in his burlap mask. He stepped forward, beckoning behind him with the gun. A loose cluster of other rogues filed into the room, taking their positions to his left and right. The Joker, with Harley Quinn at his side, tossed a mock salute at a red-faced four-star general. Poison Ivy eeled into place beside them, blowing a kiss to one of the caterers. Two-Face, the Riddler, and the Mad Hatter jostled into position on the other side, subtly shouldering one another out of the way before coming to a halt just behind the Scarecrow's left shoulder.

"Knock it off!" the Scarecrow hissed as the Joker mouthed something to someone in the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen," the Scarecrow said, "I hope you're enjoying yourselves. Quite a supercilious gathering, wouldn't you say, Edward?"

"Indeed. Most mellifluous," the Riddler agreed gravely.

The Scarecrow picked up a gleaming engraved invitation from a small table by the door, read it briefly, and flicked it toward the buffet table. "It's such a shame we weren't invited - although, to be honest, I'm not certain that I would wish to attend a gathering of such uninspired conspirators. Rebuild Arkham Asylum? Bah! What nonsense! Well, we won't stand for it. You fools wouldn't..." The Scarecrow paused, seemingly thrown off balance by the sudden appearance of Dr. Carlson at the front of the crowd. He shook it off and continued his tirade. "You wouldn't know a good idea if it hit you on the beck! Uh, bit you on the neck. I mean - "

"Timothy?" Carlson asked gently.

The Scarecrow shook his head. "Timothy?" he squeaked. Then, in a deeper voice, he stammered "T-timothy? No. No, I'm Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow!" He stuffed the gun into his waistband and fumbled a canister out of his pocket. "Stay back or I'll - "

"Timothy, can you please take the mask off?" Carlson asked, still maintaining that gentle, patient tone in his voice.

"But I'm...oh, _fine_." The man ripped his mask off and tossed it on the ground. The face that was revealed was, indeed, not that of Jonathan Crane. "How'd you know it was me?" he snapped, wiping the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his arm.

Carlson considered him for a moment. For one thing, the real Scarecrow didn't have a beer belly poking out over his rope belt. For another, he knew the real meaning of the word 'supercilious', much as the real Riddler knew the proper usage of 'mellifluous'. But most of all, Carlson couldn't fathom a scenario in which Crane could order the Joker around and then turn his back on him without immediately being shot in the back of the head.

"The real Jonathan Crane is taller than you," he said.

"Yeah, Jane said I should wear heels to make me taller, but I tried walking in them and _psssshhh_!" he said, miming falling flat on his back. "I don't know how you girls do it," he added to an appalled society matron standing nearby.

"Jane?" Carlson asked suspiciously. "Have you been associating with Jane Doe again?"

"Associating? Well, we're dating, does that count?" Timothy asked, retrieving his mask from the ground.

Carlson shook his head. "Timothy," he said, disappointment in every word, "I thought we agreed that you'd stop seeing Jane as soon as possible. Remember, you said that you were going to break up with her?"

"Yeah. I tried that. She didn't like it." His eyes darted right for a moment. "Besides, she really likes me. She helped me with my Scarecrow voice and everything. I think we've got a real connection starting up, you know?"

"The voice was good," Carlson agreed amiably. "But Timothy - "

"Stop calling me that!" Timothy snapped, throwing the prop fear gas canister to the ground. "I'm not Timothy! I'm the Pirahna!" He gnashed his teeth dramatically at the crowd.

"I thought you were calling yourself the Remora," Carlson said.

"Yeah, well, the whole suction thing wasn't really working for me. But check these out!" The Pirahna dug in the pocket of his Scarecrow pants and pulled out a set of extremely dangerous-looking pointy false teeth. He crammed them in his mouth and growled ferociously at the crowd. "Cool, right?" he said somewhat indistinctly. "Wanna see how sharp they are?" He lunged at a socialite in a silver gown.

The air went white. Shrieks echoed through the room, accompanied by the flat, meaty sounds of a pummeling in progress. When Carlson's vision returned, he saw all seven of the fake rogues in a heap behind a pair of expired flash bombs on the ground. Batman and Batgirl moved among them, gathering weapons and checking identities as Nightwing double-checked their restraints. Most of them, unused to the gentle methods of the Bat-crew, were out cold.

"Timothy Owens. Chuck Hunter - looks like he's lost some weight since we last saw him," Batgirl commented, nudging the Riddler mask off of Chuck's face with the toe of her boot. He winked flirtatiously at her and was rewarded with a slightly harder nudge to the cheekbone.

Batman undid the false Hatter's ascot and used it to wipe the makeup from the girls' faces. The green disappeared to reveal one of Two-Face's ex-henchgirls. The harlequin mask and white makeup came away to reveal -

"That's Harley!" Batgirl gasped, staring at the undeniably recognizable face of Harleen Quinzel. Nightwing immediately kicked the Joker onto his back. His green wig fell to the floor in a shower of badly-attached bobby pins, revealing his highly tanned and slightly receding actual hairline. The thick white makeup smeared on his chin was smudged in the shape of a fist.

Batman inspected the henchgirl a little closer. He ran a finger under the edge of her cowl, grimaced, and peeled off her face.

"Jane Doe," Batgirl said, relieved. "Wonder if Harley knows she has an understudy."

A dozen members of the GCPD swarmed through the door, surrounding the heap of costumed nobodies occupying the floor. "Come on," one sighed, heaving the Pirahna up by his tethered arms.

"I bit my tongue," Timothy muttered.

"Tough."

"So where are we going? Blackgate?" Timothy said with interest.

The cop scowled at him. "Prisons aren't for crazies. You're going back where you were before, ya fruitcake."

"Well, you can't mean Arkham," Timothy said, thoughtfully wriggling a bruised shoulder, "so...aw, no, not Gotham General's psych ward again. I was just there this morning! You should see what they call breakfast," he whined to another cop. "The toast is all burned and soggy, and the juice is gross!"

"Can't you just take him to another city?" one of the partygoers asked over Timothy's complaints.

"I'd love to, ma'am, but he's got to stand trial - "

"And I have to stay local until then," Timothy butted in, "and since there's still a bunch of trials or hearings or whatever left for me to show up at, looks like you're not getting rid of me that easily!" He grinned cheekily at the party as the cop dragged him backward out the door. "See ya real soon!"

"Is that true?" an aging gentleman demanded of Commissioner Gordon.

Gordon cleared his throat. "Well, yes. City statutes say that the mentally ill have to go to a mental facility, not a prison."

"And until then, they're putting the rogues in the _hospital_?" The partygoers exchanged worried glances. If Timothy Nobody could get out of the hospital that easily, how easy would it be for the Joker? How many more of their parties would be crashed, robbed and ruined by the rogues without a secure place to hold them?

Charles Griffith climbed up onto a chair. "We're here to rebuild Arkham," he said gruffly. "Anyone care to increase their donations?"

There was a genteel, subtle, and mildly panicked rush for the fancy gold-trimmed chest that held their pledges. First in line was a mildly sweaty Bruce Wayne, checkbook held in one slightly bruised hand.

* * *

><p>And so money flowed in an emerald stream toward the contractors of Gotham City. The building itself was still fairly sturdy, but a small army of architects and construction workers made it rock-solid. Dripping pipes were replaced, faulty electric systems were rewired, and every lock in the place was replaced with a top-of-the-line model that would possibly take the Riddler five entire minutes to pick (a significant improvement on the old thirty-second models).<p>

And, slowly but surely, residents started to trickle back. As the Happy Cow became the Mad Cow, as Mighty Maids turned into a mighty mess, and as the telemarketers learned a valuable lesson about forgetting to give the Master of Fear and the Prince of Puzzles their monthly bonus, the halls of Arkham began to echo with their old familiar lunacy. It was almost as if the place had never been closed.

Dr. Carlson surveyed the mountain of paperwork on his desk. New doctors on staff, new guards to outfit, new security measures to implement...ah well. He took a sip of coffee, signed a form authorizing a weekly ice-cream night in the cafeteria, and tossed it in his outbox.

"Dr. Carlson!" An intern raced in, clutching a clipboard to his chest as if it was a shield. "Dr. Carlson, there's a gigantic azalea bush trying to hammer its way into the west wing!"

Carlson gulped down the last of his coffee. At last, the world was back to normal.

_Author's Note: The gauze-in-the-nose story refers to Sigmund Freud, Wilhelm Fliess, and their unfortunate little whoopsie of leaving half a yard of gauze in someone after her operation. Thanks for reading!_


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